Page 21 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

The next thing I knew, I was awake and someone was coming into the bunkhouse. The sky through the windows was edged with lilac and pink and deep blue. I didn’t know what time it was. Too late to leave, probably.

“Mr. Dalton?”

I half sat up, balancing on my elbows. My headache was a dull, low thud, and something in my back protested.

Cameron, dusty and smiling. Behind him was Dillon. They were covered with hay and horsehair and seemed very pleased to be so.

“What time is it?” I asked, mumbling.

“Almost dinner,” Dillon said. “We’ve come to wash up. They’re big on washing up around here.”

“Jake was asking after you, Mr. Dalton,” Cameron said. “I said your car was still parked, so?—”

“We hauled hay,” Dillon said. “It was so cool! There was this big machine that made bales from dried hay on the ground, and we walked behind and threw the bales up onto a flatbed. It’s for the horses?—”

“And the cows,” Cameron added. “It’s the second cutting, Mr. Malcolm says.”

“I need to get home,” I said. My mouth was dry as cotton.

“No,” Cameron wailed in a dramatic fashion that sounded like he’d practiced it a lot. “Come to dinner, Mr. Dalton.”

“Yeah,” Dillon said. “It’s over in the dining hall. It smelled really good when we walked past.”

I imagined Jake responding for me.Say no if you mean no. Say it like a man.

“Sure,” I said. Not because I couldn’t say no like a man, but because I found that I wanted to stay, at least a little while longer. “I can drive home later.” Maybe after I ate something, I’d have more energy and everything would hurt less.

After Dillon and Cameron washed up, I stripped off my dusty, bloodstained button-down shirt and hobbled into the small bathroom to wash what was left of the blood off my face. Then I changed into a t-shirt and followed them to the dining hall.

We went over a dirt road and walked along the large riding arena to the dining hall. It was in one half of a low building, set up like a grander version of a cafeteria, with the kitchen at one end. The tables were wooden, as was the floor, as though the building it now occupied used to be a barn.

It was a little busier than it had been at breakfast, and a little louder. I followed the boys to the end of the buffet line, grabbed a tray and cutlery, and looked out over the gathering of people.

It felt like high school. Where should I sit? With Lucas and the foreman? With Colt, whom I’d just met? I was never a popular kid, so the feeling of not fitting in was utterly familiar.

Over on the far side of the room, I saw Jake. His broad shoulders in that faded blue t-shirt. The casual lean, elbows on the table as he ate, sitting across from another cowboy I’d seen in the barn after the trail ride.

Jake was shoveling it in, because of course he was. He was probably on his feet all day, was six feet of pure muscle. Had never counted a calorie in his life. I never had either, being on the thin side, but I somehow envied him not having to keep up with office mates bragging about this cleanse or that new smoothie.

When I got to the front of the line, there was a large Crock-Pot of stew, with sausage and bacon and ground beef and corn and beans all mixed together. I took some of that and the succotash and a large biscuit, and two of the small paper cups of butter. A drizzle of honey. Some iced tea from a tall brown plastic tumbler. Everything smelled great, and suddenly I realized how hungry I was.

The boys had already gone off to join their fellows, so I took a seat at a long table that was empty. It was near the window, and I sat with my back to it and ate as I watched the ranch hands and wranglers and LGBTQ kids mingle and laugh and go up for seconds.

As I finished, I considered heading home, anyway, even though I still felt a little raw. I could take more Tylenol and drive very cautiously. Better that than stay on the ranch, where every day was a new adventure, more adventure than I cared to dealwith. Or maybe I would miss those blue skies if I left. Maybe I should stay.

Busy folding my napkin, I didn’t notice when someone walked over until they plunked a white china plate in front of me. On it was a slice of what looked like flourless chocolate cake. A large dollop of whipped cream was sliding along the angle of the slice.

Another plate with a similar slice of cake was plonked on the other side, and by the time I looked up, Jake was already sitting down.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s very good,” he said. “We have a German cook helping out. She doesn’t speak a lick of English, but then I don’t speak a lick of German. Whatever she makes just melts on the tongue.”

“I don’t really eat dessert,” I said with silent apologies to the German cook who was, no doubt, highly skilled in all ways.

“This is red wine chocolate cake,” he said, then pointed at it. “And that is real whipped cream. No fake stuff.”

I looked at him, and my intended repetition about desserts stayed silent on my tongue. He’d showered and shaved, the tanned skin along his cheek still moist, a curl of hair behind each ear sleek with water.